. . . I picked up the choicest of business casual clothing. These were clothes that would better fit the upcoming season. Though spring has sprung in Chicago, the shadow it casts is dreary. The clothes have sat untouched in the entryway to my apartment. (Yeah, my apartment has an entryway. Jealous much?)
The sun was out this morning, and I hadn't overslept. I had time to iron the new threads and wear them out.
As I sat on the 147-bus, southbound for the loop, I felt the glances of the people around me. Their quick stares were as noticeable as the fur from the woman's coat next to me, pressing with each turn. When being watched, it's tough to act normal. I looked ahead at the road, the iPod shuffle blaring. (Read why A.v.E is listening to a shuffle in this entry.)
A young woman, sitting with her face towards me, made eye contact and smiled. Fuck, I must look great in these clothes. To think of all the time I wasted in black and grey.
My stop neared. I took my headphones out. Seats had opened up, and I moved to give fur coat lady more space. That's when I discovered that the regal lady of the fur coat, was in fact the crazy lady of the 147. She had been talking to herself, aloud. Her hands moved across her face as if she were Sara Goldfarb. This is what everyone had been looking at. Not the muted purple button down shirt, or cream colored slacks (feat. light pinstripes).
"I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do."
This was her mantra, repeated like the limited vernacular of a parrot.
Nothing is worse than being shown up by a crazy person.
Nothing.
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1 comment:
My place is still better.
The foot clan hangs out here and they practice their fighting skills, all day. My friends and I skip school, skate on the indoor ramp, or play the Bad Dudes arcade machine in the corner.
It's at the intersection of Eastman and Laird. Google it.
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